Away from himself
by Arianna Scribbler
Summary: On days when his anxieties are too much for him to handle alone, Courfeyrac goes to see Combeferre.


Author's note: So I have once again more or less copy-pasted my own issues onto someone else's character. It was intended as a way to distract me from my own anxieties but didn't quite work out that way. Whether that's because fictionalizing one's own problems while in the midst of them is a flawed approach or whether I just did it badly this time remains to be seen. Either way, this is deeply self indulgent. As for why I chose Courfeyrac as the vessel for this, it's mostly because I've both been wanting to write h/c type stuff about him for a while now and because I just spent a month with a guy who has social anxiety and is still one of the most social people I've ever met and I wanted to poke at that a bit. I didn't end up doing that much poking in the end, but that was the original plan.

* * *

Getting dressed is a ritual. He does it slowly, carefully, each garment smoothed and tweaked until it sits perfectly, each color chosen to harmonize with the others and with the season. He sets his curls carefully and spends several minutes arranging them, fussing and nudging until they do precisely as they're told. The entire process takes nearly an hour; he is the earliest rising of all of his friends. They tease him about his vanity and point out that he could get far more sleep if he deigned to appear in public looking less than immaculate. Courfeyrac calls them all uneducated curs and laments the fates that gave him friends who cared so little for their appearance and does not once mention the way getting dressed calms his nerves and prepares his mind for the day as much as it does his body.

He changes before going out in the evenings for the same reason, though he would be lying if he said that his aesthetic standards had no hold on his decisions. But the familiar actions of choosing and donning evening clothes help push back the fear that gnaws at the back of his mind each and every time he goes out, help muffle the voice in the back of his mind that wants nothing more than to cancel all his plans and stay home, helps calm the beating of his heart and keep his breathing even. He has dealt with this for long enough that his hands no longer shake and it has been months since he last gave in to the urge to cry, but no amount of wishing or logic or good cheer can banish the irrational fears completely. So he changes his clothes and practices his grins until they feel right on his face and reminds himself that his fears are always worse than the reality.

It is always more difficult when he is preparing himself for new things, whether they be the first outing with a new mistress or a first communication with a potential ally. Some days, only the hard-earned knowledge that canceling his engagements will only help for a short time and then make things worse gets him out the door. He takes great care to conceal his fears and his worries, not because he thinks his friends will not care but because he knows there is nothing they can do to help.

Some days, however, he feels as though his chest will explode and his throat burns with the desire to cry and no amount of sartorial splendor or firm reminders can melt the stone in his stomach. Some days he cannot bear to spend another moment in this world as himself because his every failure comes back to haunt him as clear as though they had just occurred and the thought of doing anything fills him with unshakable terror. On these days he forces himself to at least appear presentable – he has a reputation to maintain and even in the depths of his emotions he will not let it slip – and goes to find Combeferre.

The first time he used his friend so it had been two days after one of Enjolras' speeches was broken up by the police and three people had been seriously injured. Courfeyrac and his friends had escaped nearly unscathed with all but Bossuet sporting only scratches and this last managing to escape with nothing worse than a black eye and a long scrape that had started scabbing over even before Joly could start making a serious fuss. Logically it was the best possible outcome; logic never had played a part in Courfeyrac's emotions. And so it was that, two days later, he found himself nearly panicking at the thought of going to a new theatre with a truly charming girl he very much wanted to impress.

It was not conscious thought that brought him to Combeferre's door a few hours before the scheduled outing, and it took all his willpower to knock instead of turning and running. He was not certain what he needed, not certain if being here would help anything, but he knew he could not be alone right now and of all his friends Combeferre was the most likely to provide the steadiness he so craved and the least likely to ask questions.

Combeferre opened the door a few seconds after the first knock, looking startled to see Courfeyrac. "Can I help you with something?" Combeferre asked, stepping back to let Courfeyrac into his rooms.

Courfeyrac shook his head even as he entered his friend's home. "I need to be away from myself," he said, aware that the sentence made no sense but lacking the ability to express the sentiment any other way.

Combeferre frowned. "Is everything all right?"

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, though whether he meant to explain himself or to deny the need for concern he would never know. Before words could leave his lips the tightness in his throat increased tenfold and it was all he could do to stay upright and not crumple into a ball in Combeferre's doorway. He took several deep breaths, clenching his fists so that his fingernails dug into his palms, and managed, "Talk to me? About anything?"

Combeferre gave him a worried look but nodded and began telling him rather more than he had ever wanted to know about squids. Courfeyrac had known that his friend's interests had shifted in this direction recently but he had not realized just how much information Combeferre had managed to absorb in such a short time. Really he should never have doubted the other's intellectual prowess.

He clung to Combeferre's words, focusing on the sound of his friend's voice even as he took the offered spot on Combeferre's couch and crossed his legs, clutching at one of his knees without quite processing the gesture. Combeferre spoke calmly, lecturing without talking down to his audience. Courfeyrac focused on his breathing, letting the waves of facts and anecdotes distract him from his own thoughts. Slowly he relaxed, shoulders settling back into their habitual looseness and hands letting go of his knee. Combeferre, noting the change in posture, paused in his lecture and looked questioningly at his friend.

"Would you like me to continue?" he asked gently.

Courfeyrac hesitated, considering. The main waves of terror had faded, leaving only the usual undertones of fear and sadness. Those he could handle, though he would be lying if he said he enjoyed doing so. He shook his head and rose. "Thank you," he said. "I am sorry I intruded upon you without warning like this. It will not happen again."

Combeferre reached out and rested a hand on his arm. "You needn't apologize," he said. "And should you ever desire another similar distraction you are more than welcome here. As you yourself have said, I have little speaking for hours if I am permitted to do so." He grinned and Courfeyrac smiled back. Impulsively he took Combeferre's hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Informative as this was, I must say I do hope that, should I find myself in this situation again, your interests have shifted to something rather less… fishy."

Combeferre laughed, rising. "I will do my best to accommodate your tastes," he said. "Will you be gracing us with your company this evening?"

"Much as I would love to share my brilliance with you, I am afraid I have a prior engagement." Courfeyrac grinned. "Should it go well I will not be home until quite late."

Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Well, I won't keep you from your preening any longer then," he said. "Should anything of note happen I will ensure that you know of it tomorrow, though no doubt Bahorel or Grantaire will save me the trouble of catching you up on the gossip."

Courfeyrac sketched a bow. "May you all be spared the necessity of dealing with a crisis without me," he said. "And my thanks again for your generosity."

"I am pleased that I was able to be of use," Combeferre assured him. "As you well know, my home is your whenever you should require it."

"Thank you," Courfeyrac said, not even attempting to be flippant any longer. "I will endeavor not to take advantage of your generosity too often."

"Whenever you require," Combeferre repeated firmly. "You can even give me a list of approved subjects, if you don't trust my tastes."

Courfeyrac laughed at that. "No more squid, that's all I ask. Unless they've been fried, of course."

"Duly noted," Combeferre said. "I hope you have a most pleasant evening."

"You as well," Courfeyrac said. "Try not to spend the whole time with your nose in a book."

"Try to pay at least a little bit of attention to the play," Combeferre returned.

"Whatever for?" Courfeyrac asked. "None of the actresses are nearly as attractive as my charming companion."

Combeferre rolled his eyes again, muttering something about Courfeyrac being incorrigible, and closed the door. Courfeyrac started back towards his own rooms, already planning what he would wear that evening, fears once again tamped down to a completely manageable level and offset by a feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with sadness at all.


End file.
